Ominous, Part 1 by K.V. Rose
6
Eli
“Where were you last night?”Dad’s greeting, full of bite. He doesn’t look at me as he comes sweeping into the kitchen, adjusting his tie like it needs it, fiddling with his cufflinks.
I keep staring down at my coffee, the newspaper beside it, soft gray pages turned over to the classifieds. Cars. I pick up the blue, ballpoint pen on the island and trace a thick circle around an older model Supra.
I hear the suction give on the fridge as the door is pulled open. I don’t need to glance over to know Dad is grabbing his orange juice. Me and Mom never drank the stuff. Sometimes though, when he’s not around… I do. Straight from the fucking bottle.
“We were supposed to watch that movie.” He continues talking, losing the edge in his tone, and I marvel over the fact he has none of the Southern drawl his brother, my Uncle Edison, has. Jasper speaks just like his dad. I guess my accent is a careful mix of my parents’.
Dad swipes a glass from the cabinet after he closes the fridge, sets down his cup on the gleaming white marble counters, by the sink, and starts pouring his juice. His back is to me, and I doodle in the margins of the newsprint, a car of my own making. Nothing that should actually ever exist. Something out of The Flintstones, maybe, powered by feet.
“I ended up getting stuck on How to Get Away with Murder.” Dad caps the juice and drinks from his glass, gazing out at the windows over the sink, giving half a view of our sprawling gardens. Bushes and flowers and a fire pit we don’t take care of. He hires people for it.
He hires people for everything.
He’s probably giving his secretary a raise this weekend for accompanying him on his business flight to Dallas, then fucking him in her hotel room later. Maybe not ethical, but shockingly, lawyers and ethics don’t always come hand-in-hand. Hence the show he referenced.
I grip my pen a little harder, working on the second tire of my car, sloped dome roof, only two wheels visible because I’m not an artist.
In my head, I see Eden’s fingers holding her pen. I watch her chew her nails when she thinks no one is looking. I wonder if she can draw. She can probably do anything.
“I’m sorry I can’t make it today.” There’s genuine remorse in Dad’s words and I hate the way the pity pricks at my skin. I preferred his angry tone.
I shift on the bar stool at the sprawling white island.
So much white in this house, I spare a glance to the burnished, textured tile of the floors just to scrub the color from my brain for a second.
My phone pulses beside my coffee mug, face down, I know who it is, but I don’t reach for it. I just set my right elbow on it, feeling the vibration on my skin.
“Make sure you’re not tiring yourself out.” He finishes his orange juice, rinses the glass in the sink, then opens up the dishwasher, finds it’s full of clean dishes, and instead of emptying it, he sets his glass carefully on the counter before he puts away the container of juice. He’s still staring at the closed fridge when he speaks again. “Season hasn’t even started, you know?”
I chew the inside of my cheek, wondering just how long I can sit here in silence before he snaps. As the quiet between us stretches on, only broken by the distant hum of the pool pump at my back through the triple set of glass doors that lead to the patio, I go to work on the grill of my car.
He still hasn’t turned around. That means he’s really, really trying.
I bite back my smile and color in the windows, tinted black. Definitely illegal.
A soft sigh, which means he isn’t going to explode. Not yet. “Luna’s mother sent me an email.”
I freeze, teeth clenched together as I grip my pen so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t snap. No longer coloring in my windows, I don’t lift my eyes as I wait for him to speak again, knowing he will. He’s trying to bait me, but he doesn’t have enough patience to do it properly.
Even Mom’s was bigger than his, sometimes. But he doesn’t snap like she did when she lost her temper. He tries to hold it in, but I can usually see his chest swell with the effort it takes to swallow it down. His back still to me, with a single glance, I can’t see much but the rigid set of his broad shoulders beneath his suit, his hands clenched into fists at his side.
No wedding band.
He wore it for years after she left, there’s still a pale circle of skin set against the tan of the rest of his fingers.
“You’re going to the vigil tonight?” He phrases it as a question, but I don’t answer him. “It’s at Dom’s?”
“I didn’t see her walk out.”
“You slept in the living room, how the fuck could you not?”
“I know things have been rough between the three of you, but you need to stick together, you know? And if Dominic is headed to Columbia, and Luna is applying there too, I think it’s a good idea for the three of you to—”
“How many friends from high school did you drag with you to Duke?”
I see him turn to face me, but I still don’t look up. “Regardless, even if you go your separate ways, you only have until graduation and—”
“I’m not going to change my mind about school.”
“Even if you don’t, being there for Dom will make you feel a little better—”
“I don’t feel bad.” I never did. Not once. Maybe I should have. If I were like everyone else, I would have felt something after what happened to Dominic’s sister. But the whole thing about being me is I don’t feel things I should.
I thought Montford might have educated Dad on that.
But as usual, with mention of my lack of remorse, his temper starts to spike. Like if he gets angry enough, rages enough, he’ll burn away my truth.
“Have you even tried?” His voice is louder, and I imagine on those rare occasions he sees the inside of a courtroom—when he’s been unable to mitigate or mediate—this is the voice he uses. Clear and ringing, meant to squash any opposing viewpoints. “Have you ever once listened to Dom?”
I hate how he uses his nickname in a show of familiarity. Yes, we went to the same middle school, too. Private, a few blocks down from Trafalgar, same place we met Luna. Dom should understand, just like Dad, how things work for me. But they like to think I’m on their side, don’t they? That for them, I can change just enough. Fold and conform and be what they need.
“Have the two of you ever talked it out?”
I set down my pen as my phone vibrates again beneath my elbow and I turn my head slowly to look at my dad.
His eyes are a shade darker than mine, muddied with gold. His hair is impressively thick, warmer in tone than my own. More brown-black than pure black like mine and Mom’s. The streaks of silver aren’t visible from here, but I’ve noticed them. And right now, he’s got a line between his brows, furrowed as they are. Clean-shaven, his face is smooth, and he’s as tall as I am. Still in good shape, he has a personal trainer for that.
I’ve felt his blows.
He can throw a punch.
But even with his physicality, and his fucking J.D., and his accolades, and his quick rise to partner when I was a kid, the way he shut Mom up with luxury and things and control, he cannot begin to fathom the first thing about his only child.
“Have we talked about it.” I repeat the words, not as a question, but maybe so he can listen and realize how fucking stupid they sound.
But he doesn’t because Dad never listens. Not to the doctors, not psychiatrists, not even to Mom, the supposed love of his life. The one he wore a golden band around his fucking finger for while he put them inside a multitude of women over the years after she left.
My only saving grace was he never pretended they would stick around.
If another woman had tried to be my mother, it’s possible I would have killed her.
“Yeah. It’s what two people do when they have a disagreement, Eli.” He looks upward, at the recessed lights overhead, shadows of clouds from outside passing over the lean cut of his jaw. I look a lot like him, and a lot like Mom. I’m the perfect blend of the two of them.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t just in physical makeup.
“We’re fine.” It’s not true. Since I was away, things have spiraled for Dominic. But we’re still friends. What the fuck more does Dad want?
“The vigil, just… consider it, okay?”
I won’t. “You got it, Dad.” The idea of standing around holding a lit candle with Luna, Dominic, and their respective parents makes me want to shatter the glass at my back with the chair legs of my stool.
Dad senses my sarcasm. At least he can pick up on that.
His hazel eyes come to mine again, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “I don’t understand you.” Probably the most honest, raw thing he’s ever said to me.
I curve a brow in surprise, my fingers shaking just slightly against the soft newsprint. Warmth spreads in my chest, and I can’t hide the fact I’m fucking pleased he admitted it.
“I know.”
He runs his tongue over his teeth, keeping his lips closed.
I sweep one foot over the cool tile of the floors. I can feel the grout even beneath my sock. I need to change. I have to pack shit for the tournament. There will be food and freshly laundered singlets thanks to Ms. Pensky, and all the Trafalgar DragonsT-shirts I could want, but I like multiple pairs of sweatpants, boxers, my own snacks, headphones. I’m going to bring Eden back here tonight. I’m going to fuck her while Dominic holds his vigil. I think about letting Dad know about Eden. He’d like her, smart and driven as she is.
He’d probably try to warn her away from me. Might make this all the more fun.
For a moment, Dad and I just stare at one another. He has a flight to catch, I have an unusual girl to pick up, but in these long seconds, it kind of falls away, taking a backseat to our loathing of one another.
“I know you didn’t do anything,” Dad says, his words gentle. “But it would be really nice if the Landers knew you didn’t too. If they saw you supporting their son.”
I smile at him. “Fuck them.” I think maybe tonight, after the tournament, I’ll stop by and burn down their fucking house and let them know if I had wanted to do something horrible to their daughter, they would’ve known I did it.
Dad’s eyes soften. “Eli, you don’t get it.”
I hate those words. I fucking hate them. Because I get it, more than most people. I can observe things without attachment, unlike Dad, unlike the Landers, Dominic, Luna, even Janelle. I can see things without skewed loyalties clouding my vision. The Landers needed someone to blame. I was there but forensics cleared me. None of it matters. They still think I saw something. Did something.
My blood grows hot, but I try to reign it in. I try to keep fucking calm. I count in my head. I think about the reward, like Montford taught me. But what is the reward? Dad leaves and we don’t fight? We get through a morning without blowing up at each other?
Doesn’t seem like a fucking reward to me. Not at all.
“Fuck you, too,” I tell him, pointing my index finger in his direction, newspaper floating to the floor, every page coming apart, scattering around the tiles as I get to my feet. “It’s you who doesn’t get it.” My pulse is racing, and I can feel my blood pressure spiking. “Fuck you, Dad. You’re the reason I’m like this, you know? Why they don’t believe me. You’re the reason I’m fucking like this!” I scream the last word, swiping my hand over the counter, the ceramic mug of coffee hitting the floor and shattering at the exact same time Dad takes a step toward me, the muscles in his shoulders stiff.
His eyes find the splintered mug, white shards glittering from the rising sun poking through the clouds, pouring in through the back doors behind me.
Dark coffee threads through the mess, snaking in rivulets and settling into the grout of the floor.
“All these therapies and medications and fucking time off of work and flights and specialists and you still don’t know the first thing about respect, Eli.” He whispers each word as he stares at the mug, but I’m surprised he hasn’t come closer. Maybe he plans to fuck his secretary in the car to the airport. He doesn’t want to get dirty.
I shrug one shoulder in a lazy gesture even as my mind and heart race, excitement coursing through me. “Sorry to cut into your life, Dad. I never asked for help. If you’d have turned a blind eye like Mom did, you could’ve made perfect attendance at the fucking firm—”
Before I can finish the sentence, he’s coming toward me. A snarl leaves his lips as he gets in my face. I’m as tall as he is, and I’m in better shape. Dad is far removed from his wrestling years.
“Do you remember why I had to shell out all of this money for you? Do you remember the things you said to your mother? Andyou were killing animals, Eli. You cannot torture things and your… your family and expect me to just… just pretend you’re not…” Spit flies from his lips as he averts his eyes, looking over my shoulder and holding up his hands, searching for the word, desperate to hurt me but scared to sink the knife in. He’s mad, and he probably hates me right now, but he still can’t say it, can he?
“I’m not what, Dad?” I whisper the words as I step closer and his gaze snaps to mine again, his nostrils flaring. I can feel the heat and rage coming from his skin. See the sweat down his neck, the vein near bursting beneath the surface above his white collar. “I’m not… what?”
But he still doesn’t say it. He shakes his head, pressing his lips together for a second. “I’m not doing this with you.” He starts to turn but I dart my hand out, unable to stop myself. My fingers dig into the soft, expensive fabric of his suit jacket and he stills, his muscles stiff beneath my grip. “Eli. Let go of me.”
I smile at him. My adrenaline is through the roof and all I want to do is smash his fucking head against the glass door at our side. I don’t even know why. I have no clue where these impulses come from. But I want to hurt him.
And I want him to hurt me back.
“No.”
He grabs my wrist to get my hand off of him, but I tighten my grip.
“You’re pathetic, you know that?” I keep my smile as I say the words. “I’ve heard you talk about it. To the doctors and especially the nurse you were fucking up in Idaho. I know how you really feel, Dad.” I step even closer, our chests nearly touching. “Just fucking say it.”
“Eli. Let. Go.”
I don’t, and I keep quiet, holding his gaze.
He narrows his eyes. I know he’s close. He’s about to snap. I just have to wait for it.
“Eli! Get your fucking hands off of me!” He yanks at my wrist again, but I just grab his upper arm with my other hand, and then he screams in frustration. It’s a loud, broken sound, followed by him shoving me against the glass at my back. My head thuds against it, and I laugh, trying to keep him off even as he yanks me away from the door by his grip on my arms just to slam me back again. This time hurts worse, a roaring in my ears as I drop my hand from his jacket to cock my fist back. I curl my fingers and shove him away with my palm at the same time I land a blow to his throat.
He gags, coughing as his face turns red, but he doesn’t even miss a beat. I guess he still has wrestling reflexes after all. His fist hits my gut and I curl over, the wind knocked out of me. He doesn’t stop. He hits me again, and again, and again, the last time in my chest, my head thudding with the door once more in time with the violent motion. My hands come to my knees as he backs up, his palms held up toward me like he’s surrendering. I try to catch my breath as I close my eyes, sinking down to the floor, my wrists on my knees, hands clenched into fists. The pain is deep, but bearable. It just knocked the fucking air out of my lungs.
“I don’t want to do this with you,” he says, and I smile, eyes still closed as I try to breathe, my adrenaline fading, a little of my impulses curbed. “I can’t fucking do this with you anymore.” Then he turns and I hear him stalk off. A few moments later, the side door slams shut so hard his glass rattles on the counter by the sink.
I open my eyes in time to watch it fall and shatter.
The sound pierces through the pain and I start to breathe normally again.
The need in my head to fuck something up is momentarily sated.
Staring at the two broken cups in this house, I think of Eden. I think of telling her about this morning, casually. My eyes catch on the newspaper, the classified section damp with coffee, smudging the tiny black print.
What would she say, I wonder?
I prop my elbows on my knees and drop my head into my hands, then smack my palms against my face. Once. Twice. Three times, harder.
I don’t think she’d say anything.
I think she’d just get it.
I think she would understand.